style="font-size:15px;"> “I told you I had not any accommodations for womenkind. You should have left her at the convent. Farther back, it is De Longueville’s business to care for her.”
“But you see he did not. You and he are her only blood kin, and you both cast her off. It is well she has found a friend.”
“The convent and the Sisters would have been better.”
“Come, man, some sort of a towel,” exclaimed Denys imperatively.
Antoine rummaged in the old chest, and presently brought forth one. Denys noted that it was soft and fine and not of home manufacture. Then he led Renée out to the little basin and, dipping the towel in, washed her face and hands.
“Oh, how good it feels!” she cried delightedly.
Gaspard had grown quite used to playing lady’s maid. He took a comb out of its case of Indian work that he carried about in his pocket, and combed out the tumbled hair. She winced now and then at a bad tangle, and laughed on the top of it. Then he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. She caught his head in her small arms and pressed her soft cheek against his caressingly.
“I love you, Uncle Gaspard,” she exclaimed. “But I don’t love that old man in there. Are you sure he is my grandfather? I couldn’t live here. I should run away and live with the birds and the squirrels.”
“And the Indians.”
“But that Light of the Moon was sweet and pretty.”
“Yes. I should like to have brought her with us for your maid.”
“Oh, that would have been nice!” She clapped her hands. “What is over there?” nodding her head.
“That is St. Louis – the fort, the palisades, the stockade to keep out the Indians.”
“There are no Indians in France,” she said retrospectively.
“No. And I have wondered a little, Renée, if you would not rather be back there.”
“And not have you?” She clung to his arm.
He gave a little sigh.
“Oh, are you not glad to have me? Does no one want me?”
The pathos of the young voice pierced his heart.
“Yes, I want you. I had no one to care for, no brothers or sisters or – ”
“Men have wives and children.” There was a touch of almost regret in her tone, as if she were sorry for him.
“And you are my child. We will go in town to-day and find some one to look after you. And there will be children to play with.”
“Oh, I shall be so glad. Little girls?”
“Yes. I know ever so many.”
“I saw my little brothers in Paris as we came through. They were very pretty – at least their clothes were. And papa’s wife – well, I think the Queen couldn’t have had any finer gown. They were just going to the palace, and papa kissed me farewell. It was very dreary at the old château. And when the wind blew through the great trees it seemed like people crying. Old Pierre used to count his beads.”
What a strange, dreary life the little girl had had! It should all be better now. The child of the woman he had loved!
“If grandfather is rich, as Marie said, why does he live that way?”
She made a motion toward the house.
“No one knows whether he is rich or not. He trades a little with the Indians and the boats going up and down the river.”
The shrill summons to breakfast reached them.
They went in, the child holding tightly to Gaspard’s hand. It seemed as if her grandfather looked more forbidding now than he had last night. He was both sulky and surly, but the viands were appetizing, and this morning Renée felt hungry. Gaspard was glad to see her eat. The old man still eyed her furtively.
“Well?” he interrogated, as they rose from the table, looking meaningly at Gaspard.
“We are going in the town, the child and I,” Gaspard replied briefly.
Antoine nodded.
Oh, what a morning it was! The air seemed fairly drenched with the new growth of everything; the tints were indescribable. Some shrubs and flowers had begun to bloom. Renée had seen so much that was cold and bleak, trees leafless and apparently lifeless amid the almost black green of hemlocks and firs. Streams and pools frozen over, and a coldness that seemed to penetrate one’s very soul. At Detroit it had softened a little and all along the journey since then were heralds of warmth and beauty. The child, too, expanded in it, and the changes in her face interested Gaspard intently. He was a great lover of nature himself.
Early St. Louis was all astir. From the bustle, the sound of voices, the gesticulation, and running to and fro, it appeared as if there might be thousands of people instead of six or seven hundred. Everything looked merry, everybody was busy. There was a line of boats coming, others already at the primitive landings, Indians and trappers in picturesque attire, gay feathers and red sashes; fringes down the sides of their long leggings and the top of their moccasins. Traders were there, too, sturdy brown-faced Frenchmen, many of whom had taken a tour or two up in the North Country themselves, and had the weather-beaten look that comes of much living out of doors. Children ran about, black-eyed, rosy-cheeked, shrill of voice. Small Indians, with their grave faces and straight black hair, and here and there a squaw with her papoose strapped to her back.
Gaspard Denys paused a moment to study them. He really had an artist’s soul; these pictures always appealed to him.
They came in the old Rue Royale, skirting the river a short distance, then turned up to the Rue d’Eglise. Here was a low stone house, rather squat, the roof not having a high peak. A wide garden space, with fruit trees and young vegetables, some just peeping up from brown beds and a great space in front where grass might have grown if little feet had not trodden it so persistently. A broad porch had a straw-thatched roof, and here already a young girl sat spinning, while several children were playing about.
“Lisa! Lisa!” called the girl, rising. “Ah, Monsieur Denys, we are very glad to see you. You have been absent a long while. You missed the merry-making and – and we missed you,” blushing.
A pretty girl, with dark eyes and hair done up in a great coil of braids; soft peachy skin with a dainty bloom on the cheek and a dimple in the broad chin. Her lips had the redness of a ripe red cherry that is so clear you almost think it filled with wine.
“And I am glad to see you, Barbe,” taking her outstretched hand. “Ought I to say ’ma’m’selle’ now?” glancing her all over, from the braids done up to certain indications in the attire of womanhood.
She blushed and laughed. “Oh, I hope I have not grown as much as that. I should like always to be Barbe to you.”
“But some day you may be married. Then you will be madame to everybody.”
“Lise thinks I have too good a home to give up lightly. I am very happy.”
Madame Renaud came out of the house. She was taller and larger
